


It's Just Business

by mythtress



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 10:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythtress/pseuds/mythtress
Summary: Timothy contemplates everything he's been through while waiting for Jack in his office.





	It's Just Business

**Author's Note:**

> Timothy will always be my favorite...

The man once known as Timothy Lawrence lifted one boot to the edge of the heavy metal desk, pushing until the chair he'd been instructed to sit in balanced on two legs. As he placed his hands behind his head, two mismatched eyes scanned the large office, taking in the spectacle of expensive junk occupying the space. The trappings of opulence were not his style. He didn't need the overly grandiose black leather furniture to be comfortable. Give him a place to rest a few hours with no concern for being mauled and he wouldn't complain the rest of the day. The statues and paintings of his employer were ego tripping at it's finest, rather befitting the CEO of Hyperion. He could never be comfortable with a smug face leering down at him from all angles, especially if it was his own. Though that masked visage wasn't his face, not truly. Timothy was the flawed replication of a man who no longer existed. A far more violent, unstable counterpart had assumed that position. The alteration had left the body double feeling vulnerable, obsolete. Could he be tossed aside as easily as Jack had left behind his previous name? Was this meeting going to determine his continued employment? His mind went wild for a second thinking back on all the tasks he'd performed for Jack. Would he end up like the scientists, blown out an air lock for some perceived crime (committed or not)? It made him angry to think that after all the crap he'd gone through, everything he'd survived, that his life would be ended with the push of a button by some self satisfied psychopath.

He released a long, drawn out sigh letting his foot slip and slumping forward, shoulders falling in exasperation. It wouldn't do him any good to confront his boss with even a hint of anger. That man could smell disrespect on people, like aftershave. It made him act unpredictably, more so than usual. Some days Handsome Jack liked it, most days the offender was dead within twenty seconds of opening their mouth. Timothy would rather leave the office with his brain matter in tact, if he could help it. He swiped a hand through his hair.

A hopeful thought suddenly shot through and brightened his mood like burst fire from a Maliwan laser. Maybe Jack had an assignment for him!

He was bored. Horribly, terribly, bored. It hadn't been so long ago that the idea of running around getting shot at would have been enough to scare him wit less. Now he nearly missed it. Perhaps miss wasn't the right word. That spike of adrenaline he got from throwing a grenade into a grouping of unaware scavs, was what he missed. Did he miss the sight of gore left behind by the aforementioned explosive? Not so much. But the utter thrill of catching an enemy unawares? Oh, Yes! That twist of fear in his gut as a badass enemy stepped onto the field, catching him in the middle of reloading. The taste of satisfaction as the jerk who had been talking down to him over the echo was now laying at his feet, choking on their blood and his bullets. 

The violence had become routine. It was part of the job. It was never personal, not for him.

His companions took fevered joy in causing carnage. Their laughter and boisterous taunts mixing with the echoing gunshots and deathly wails as enemies fell before them. Though the behavior had horrified him at first he had grown bold surrounded by such daring bad asses and joined in with the jeering and ego tripping. 

More than once Tim had cut himself off mid laugh, sudden realization hitting him with the force of a Torgue size explosion. He was actually enjoying this insanity! Running around killing people, scavengers so no real loss for Elpis, but real living people, and then boasting about it. Was he doing this because it would be the kind of thing Jack would do? The body double program, the weapons, and this chaotic cluster that had become his life after arriving on Helios had allowed him the opportunity to explore a side of himself that he didn't even believe to exist. Was this who he really was? 

The truth of it terrified him to no end. As did his companion vault hunters, but less in an existential crisis sort of way and more in an "Even the nice people are murderers!", sort of way. 

Wilhelm had been known as an enforcer during his time on the inner worlds. He had the muscle and tech to take down anything or anyone that was dumb enough to get between him and an objective. Though he was a man of few words and simple tastes. (e.g.Steak and Robots) It was hard to get a read on the cyborg. Observing his scar etched features, often set in a deep scowl, would twitch into something akin to a smile when his drones displayed their extensive skill sets. Though grimace would be a more apt word for the expression. Perhaps the surgeries had caused to much nerve damage, or maybe he just didn't feel that wide of a range of emotion to begin with. Either way, Wilhelm made Tim uncomfortable. How could anyone like having metal shoved into their skin? The surgeries to transform him into the attractive Hyperion employee had been awful. He never wanted to go under the knife again. 

Nisha wasn't here to enforce anyone elses law. In her mind, she WAS the law. The hammer's of her dual pistols slamming down faster than the gavel of any judge. Dealing out death sentences to those she deemed deserving. It seemed nearly everyone they chanced upon was deserving, not that Tim would ever argue 

For Athena, this kind of work had been her life at Atlas. She rushed into enemy fire without hesitation, her shield at the ready, throwing herself between them and hails of gun fire. Timothy admired her bravery, he also thought she was crazy to risk her life so willingly for complete strangers. When asked the gladiator forcefully informed him that her loyalty was to the mission, not any of them. Tim avoided speaking to the ex assassin unnecessarily after that. 

Fr4g-trp's bouts of maniacal laughter while firing wildly into scavs put Timothy on edge despite the machines overwhelmingly idiotic behavior the rest of the time. A robot should NOT act like that!

Aurelia's haughty laugh carried over their skirmishes, sounding both out of place, yet completely appropriate amidst the sickening sounds of skulls being split by her expert sniper shots. Her life of privilege had led her to seek out risk and adventure, if only to ease boredom. Her seemingly unending wealth had bought her the finest training and equipment, and she put it on full display. The Baroness, in her blood splattered designer clothes, was not a woman to be crossed. 

Timothy's uneasiness with being in such close proximity to these dangerous individuals dwindled to a low continuous thrum in the back of his head. A warning that cropped up every time he started to get a little to comfortable around any of them. 

Even as Wilhelm offered him a hand up after Timothy was knocked on his ass, he considered how easily the man could crush his throat with his robotic strength. When the Aegis whizzed past his head during a fire fight, grazing the tip of his surgically sculpted nose, cleanly knocking the heads off two scavs he hadn't seen, he recalled Athena's successful mission kill count was over 1000. When Nisha, after tossing a few back at Moxxii's, placed her ten gallon on his head and exclaimed that the deep purple was NOT his color while snatching the hat back. When she left later she shot him two finger pistols and a smile. He had been pleasantly surprised at first but the reality that those finger pistols could turn into actual guns if he ever said or did anything the woman didn't agree with, quickly squashed any pleasant feelings the woman had stirred up with her antics. 

He couldn't forget who these people really were, and what they were capable of. Who he had at his back, to either side, in front of him, and of course the ever present voice calling the shots, loud and demanding, over the echo. 

Jack. 

Jack's richly timbered voice had replaced his own prepubescent pitched one with a device that pained him with every syllable. It was unfortunate for Timothy that Jack was a talker. High cheek bones, plush quaffed auburn hair, a chiseled jaw. Features many found attractive. Timothy would be a liar if he said he hadn't been pleased about the outcome of the surgeries. He was handsome, no two ways about it. 

It had been so easy to say yes, to simply accept what was going to be done to him. Just like always. When Tim took a moment to reflect he had always been doing as others told him. Perhaps he had the proper physiology or more than likely he had the right psychology. He could be molded into someone else. That's what being a body double was supposed to be about. Becoming the mirror image of someone to the point that their own enemies/friends couldn't tell the difference between the two. Timothy hadn't been very good at it. Jack was not the person he would have chosen to be a double for. Though, looking in any reflective surface, perhaps he shouldn't complain. 

Jack's personality however left a lot to be desired. He was a narcissist to the core. A megalomaniac, self assured to the point of cocky, often annoyingly overconfident. Calculating, always planning, wheels spinning behind those mismatched eyes. When Jack wasn't running off at the mouth, a rare occurrence; Timothy was able to glimpse a rare side to the man. An odd sort of bonus due to his working relationship to Jack, and he realized with a swelling of strange pride it was a privilege few people were allowed. 

There was something exhilarating about taking the enemy down and proving he was better than them. That little well of pride he got every time they fell and he came out as the sole survivor. He had fought alongside some seriously fearsome vault hunters, yet HE had been able to prove himself an asset.

Even going so far as to strike out on his own, gaining recognition from his employer. Extra kick back when jobs went especially well was always nice and then there were the lingering touches. Jack would clasp his shoulder, slide his hand over top of Timothy's own, he'd even patted the body double's thigh before. Timothy had tried to chalk that all up to Handsome Jack's playful side, the part of him that liked pet names. (He favored Kitten for his body double.)

He had been Timothy Lawrence, poor, pathetic, a real nobody. Not even his own mother had shed a tear for Timothy's passing. He had become Jack, handsome, powerful, and now the CEO of Hyperion. But he wasn't actually any of those things, because he wasn't really Jack. 

Timothy pulled the pistol from its holster on his thigh. It was also a replica, just like him; a perfect reproduction. His thumb ran over the gleaming barrel as he considered all the things he had done under another's name. He’d been wearing a mask for awhile, trying to make himself fit the role he’d been given. Now that Jack had donned a new mask, Timothy was seriously questioning his ability to maintain the charade. 

He tells himself it's just business, nothing personal; even as he unloads the entire pistol clip into his employer. The office has amazing acoustics, and the echoes of the shots continue to ring around the place long after the body has slumped out of the oversized yellow chair. 

The look on the man’s face will stay with him for awhile, but the blood on the mask will wash off easily enough. Now all he has to do is put it on.

**Author's Note:**

> First work ever finished for Borderlands and it's this very odd sort of thing.


End file.
